A Done Deal
by simplexcontradiction
Summary: Hell, some of us we never had a chance.
1. Preface

Disclaimer: _I do not own Heroes, or anything affiliated with Heroes. This is just for my own amusement._

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**A Done Deal**

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Preface

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"Are you ready?"

The urgency in his voice frightened her. In the dark she can make out his eyes, wide and questioning, expecting a quick answer. They hold no explanation for their hasty exit, but she can't be sure, his eyes are everywhere, shifting with every noise.

The moon finds its way through the thin curtains, illuminating the room. A layer of sweat covers his face and in the deep silence she can hear herself swallow hard. A drop rolls down her forehead. She's sweating now too.

"I'm ready."

There's a tremor in her voice that she can't control, and she chews ruthlessly on a thumbnail. A door slams, starling them both. Without another word her hand is secure in his and they find their way to the kitchen of the small house. A man waits for them there and, immediately she recognizes him, she doesn't have to flick on a light to know it was her father.

A sense of relief flowed through her tense body, and she relaxed; her father wouldn't let any harm come to her, but that relief was short lived. There is a look of fear and guilt in his eyes, a look that he thinks he can hide from her, but her senses are heightened. The smell of danger lingers in the air.

"Did you get everything?"

The younger man released her hand and tugged at the black backpack slung over his shoulder with a nod of his head. "Can't promise they won't track it back to us. I doubt they take kindly to stealing."

"Doesn't matter, we got what we wanted." The words were just above a whisper.

He towered over her, his hand on her shoulder and his back hunched; he wanted to look her in the eyes while he spoke with her. For a moment, she could have sworn there were tears clouding his eyes, but with a blink the tears were gone and the fearless man she knew was back.

"Frankie, you're going to take a ride with your uncle." It was a demand, not a request. He felt her breathe in sharply and tense under his grip; a retort was coming, he knew she wouldn't go without some kind of resistance. He spoke before she could. "I'll be right behind you the whole way."

She choked back a sob. He was lying, she could always tell when he lied to her. "You promised." She coughed and took in a shaky breath. "When mom left you promised no more. That all this would stop."

"We don't have time for this, Tom," Her uncle interrupted, on edge, shifting his weight from his left foot to his right.

He held up a finger signaling he wanted just one more moment with his daughter. "I know what I promised, and I'm sorry. I lo—"

He didn't get a chance to finish his sentence.

One of the nine glass panels that made up the backdoor shattered, spraying shards of glass throughout the kitchen and a defining sound- a loud bang- filled the silence. In shock, she fell to the floor throwing her arms over her head. Her father followed, his heavy body slumping over her, and at first, she thought he was trying to protect her but something wasn't right.

Through the chaos she could faintly hear her uncle screaming her name and the weight of her father's body was lifted from her back. She took a deep breath and winced, a sharp burning pain enveloping her left shoulder. The kitchen was dark, almost pitch black, but she could still make out the blood that dripped down her arm.

Immediately, she turned her attention to her father, who now lay sprawled across the tile floor. Her uncle was bent over him, fingers pressed to his neck no doubt searching for a pulse – but as she held her breath taking in the scene with wide eyes – he shook his head and stood.

"He's gone. There's nothing we can do," He murmured and, for a moment, Frankie thought she might be sick. Her stomach lurched, and her mouth went dry; she could feel the room begin to spin. No, the room wasn't spinning; her uncle was hauling her to her feet. "We have to get out of here, now!" He yelled.

The pain in her shoulder was unbearable. Each step, each breath, sent another spike of pain through her and, more than once, the thought that she wouldn't make it through this alive crossed her mind. Her uncle urged her on in a hushed tone; his hand gripping her waist tightly, while the other secured the arm thrown over his shoulder.

But, it was too much. There was so much blood.

At the bottom of the cellar steps, just a few feet from the window they were to escape, she collapsed. A gasping breath left her lips and she was still.

A metallic '_zip_' breaks the silence.

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	2. Unsure

Disclaimer: _I do not own Heroes, or anything affiliated with Heroes. This is just for my own amusement._

Author Note: _Thank you again to those who reviewed and to anyone who even took the time to read any of this. Constructive Criticism is welcome, ideas, anything. I am always looking to improve my writing. I'm nice, I promise, I will listen with open ears!_

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A Done Deal

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_Unsure_

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"You're a coward."

Thin, pale fingers tightened around the handle of a rusted pocketknife willing the blade to remain steady as she prepared for its first strike. Her throat contracted and her heart sped up, reverberating in her ears.

"Just do it. Real quick and it'll be over."

Eyes, clouded over with determination, stared at the reflection in the mirror willing her to finish the deed at hand.

She was going to do it.

The blade moved closer and her breath hitched in her throat. The sharp edge was going to make contact.

She _was_ going to do it this time.

One last look in the mirror, and a deep breath before her eyes clenched closed. She couldn't watch_. JustdoitJustdoitJustdoit_.

The pocketknife, angled just inches above its desired destination, faltered before the hand that held it fell back to her side. She's true to her word, she is a coward. Her left hand – her dominant hand – tugs at one of the two braids in her hair.

"Why can't I just cut you off?"

The braid was flicked out of her hand in disgust and anger and fell back into its place over her shoulder. The frayed ends reached just above her waist, way too long for her liking and her patience. Her fingers curl around the edge of the sink, and her chest heaves. She feels like she hyperventilating.

"Stop living in the past, Frankie, he's dead. They're all dead." She mumbled, jaw locked and teeth grinding together.

She heard the words, but her mind refused to process them. Her father – God bless his soul, or whatever the hell people said these days. She refused to step foot inside a church – adored her hair, and despite the hassle of keeping it the length it was at, there wasn't enough strength or will inside her just to hack it all off. As stupid as it was – and she told herself on numerous occasions it was stupid– her hair, her long, knotted, dirty hair was the only thing that remained of her old life and her father.

It was an anchor.

_"You're going to grow up, get married and give me a bunch of little red headed grandbabies."_ He'd always say, a huge grin on his face. She would grimace, stick out her tongue and give his arm a little shove.

At the time she was too young to appreciate the little things he said and did; the way he protected her from all the bad things in the world. Sixteen was the age of rebellion, a time to find out who you are as a person, and now, six years later she regretted those years. He was gone, and she was alone.

"Sorry, but you aren't going to see those grandkids anytime soon, dad." She replied dryly.

The sink supported her weight as she stood on her tippy toes, and leaned forward to study her reflection in the mirror. It worried her how at ease she was talking about her father, how she spoke to him as if he were in the room with her. She had been doing that a lot lately. She pulled at the skin underneath her eye, and ran her tongue over her cracked lips.

Was she going crazy? Did people actually _go _crazy or were they born that way?

A knock on the door startled her from her thoughts.

"Hello, anyone in there!" Another knock and a jiggle of the doorknob. "I have to use the bathroom. Now!"

Frankie closed her eyes, and released an irritated sigh. "Is there anyone in here- the fucking door's locked. What do you think you fucking moron." She growled under her breath an open palm smacking the side of the sink.

For a moment she mulled over just ignoring the person. He could wait, and there were other bathrooms, but no- she didn't need, or necessarily want, to drawl attention to herself. In the end that might turn out messy.

The knocks continued as she gathered her things growing in intensity with each passing second. Her messenger bag was tossed over her shoulder, and the pocketknife was snapped close catching her right index finger in the process. She bit back a yelp and examined the cut briefly before placing it between her lips and sucking the blood away. It was a decent sized cut, but there was no time to worry about that now.

The insistent knocks were loud, sporadic bangs now-bangs that she was sure were made by a fist or an open palm. God, people from New Jersey had no patience.

A flick of the wrist and a twist of the knob and the door was thrown open. The middle-aged man on the other side staggered forward at the sudden action, his fist on course to make contact with the door. His brow furrowed in confusion and his hand jerked back, eye searching the small bathroom.

Frankie took advantage of his moment of confusion and carefully slipped around him purposely flicking his ear when she saw the chance. The man reacted violently, whipping around nearly stumbling over his own two feet. His eyes, wide and alert, searched for the person he was sure had to be there, but he found nothing. Just an empty hallway.

A deep breath and one more glance down the thin hallway and the man backed up - his fingers hesitantly touching his ear – slamming the bathroom door closed.

The only thing she could do was snort and shake her head in disbelieve and annoyance. "Nobody has any manners anymore." She grumbled, carefully maneuvering her way out of the small diner.

As she stepped out onto the street, she mentally added the weather to the growing list of frustrations she was making in her head. _Number 1:_ People. _Number 2:_ The weather.

A cold front had moved in yesterday night, right after she entered New Jersey, and now, the rain.

The weatherman had been wrong. He predicted quite confidently that the rain would come tomorrow night, not today, but that's what she got for hanging out at Best Buy flipping through television channels; the false hope that she would be prepared, and crappy infomercials that rotted her brain. It was a hard decision, which was worse.

Not that the state of her mind mattered. Nothing _really _mattered anymore. She was breaking all the rules just by being here in New Jersey; the goddamn weather was an omen to that. Hell, if she took a sharp right and kept on walking she would end up in front of the house she grew up in.

And that was not safe.

_Safe_. Was there a place that she was actually safe? Hypothetically, she could cross the street in any state – New Jersey or not- and be struck by a car and be dead in the street. But she knew that's not what her uncle meant when he said it. She didn't enjoy thinking about the true meaning behind his words.

The rain had grown increasingly heavy, coming down in heavy drops leaving no inch of her dry. The few people that were out scatter, running for their cars or any type of shelter they could find. With a deep sigh she tilted her head back towards the black sky.

"Then why am I here?"

Francine Morgan was a lot of things, but one thing she was not was a rule breaker.

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End file.
